


untitled 23 (for a rainy day)

by ceeturnalia (traveller)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:52:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a smol fiction. from the prompt: <em>athos being sad and porthos being comforting?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled 23 (for a rainy day)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [threegee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threegee/gifts).



The rain has been sheeting down for days, turning the streets into a reeking swamp of refuse and mud, and the Seine runs perilously high. The city is at a standstill, as is the garrison: there are no urgent missions, no intrigues, not even a simple escort detail — His Majesty is as trapped by the weather as his subjects. The soldiers play cards indoors, choked by the bitter smoke from the fireplaces and the lamps, rationing their wine, because who knows when they’ll be able to venture out for more? Brawls erupt over the smallest slight, and Tréville’s temper is the most frayed of all. 

At some point on the fifth day, Athos disappears.  


_Find him_ , the captain orders Porthos, who cannot quite suppress his annoyance. 

 _We’re off-duty, sir—_ he tries, but Tréville’s jaw sets, and there’s no negotiation.

_I have my reasons. Find him._

Porthos pulls on his cloak and hat, resigns himself to ruined boots, and goes.

The taverns are mostly empty, and there’s no one at all in the streets. Porthos is soaked to the skin by the time he reaches the narrow street where Athos keeps a room; he tries to stamp the worst of the muck off his boots before heading up the stair but there’s nothing to be done for the water. He leaves a river behind him, flowing into a lake as he stands at Athos’ door.

There’s no proper answer to his knock, but there is a bang on the other side. Porthos takes it as invitation, and pushes the door open. 

A boot lies near the door; Porthos kicks it aside, shrugging out of his cloak. He’s trying not to drag in any more mud and wet than he has to. There’s an unused peg inside the door, so he hangs his cloak and hat there; he’s expecting Athos to throw the other boot, but it doesn’t come. 

Instead, Athos sits on the floor by the fire, stripped down to shirt and smallclothes, a blanket round his shoulders. The rest of his things are spread around the room in varying states of dryness—he must have left the garrison earlier than they thought. His hair hides his face; his bare feet look comically pale against the filthy hearthstone. 

_Tréville sent you._

It’s not a question, but Porthos confirms anyway: _Yeah. He didn’t say haul you back by your ear if necessary, but that was the sense I got._ He closes the door and leans back against it to peel off his boots—they are _foul_ —and waits for Athos to react. And waits. 

Finally: _If you’re meant to be dragging me back, you’re making a poor job of it._

Porthos shrugs. _If I drag you back, that means going out in the shit again._  


_So you’re just going to stay._  

Apparently. Porthos shrugs again, and peels off his top layer as well, unbuckles his belt, and puts it aside. _There room by that fire?_

A hand emerges from the blanket, waves at the space to Athos’ left. _I’ve only got the one arse._

The fire’s heat feels heavenly on Porthos’ chilled bones; he stands a moment, toasting his backside before sitting down.  It’s only once he’s sat that Athos turns to look at him, and there’s something about his eyes, something about how thin his face appears under his beard, that reminds Porthos of a magician’s trick he saw once as a child. An egg, pressed on both ends, can withstand an impressive amount of force—held just so, the shell won’t break in even a strong man’s hand. A tap from the same hand on the side of the shell, and it’s crushed. 

 _Give me some of that blanket,_ Porthos says, bumping his shoulder into Athos’.

 _So you’re going to stay,_ Athos repeats, and Porthos nods his head.  
  
_At least until the rain stops._  
  
  



End file.
